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Corpse-Eater
It is not an easy thing to be a trader during dark times. It is a difficult thing to behold, a village filled with nothing but corpses. Yet it is the type of thing one gets used to after a few encounters, and so was only indirectly the source of my work troubles. Villagers need only once see such a sight before they begin shunning any visitors they do not know. I’ll admit I found them weak-hearted for it, though I did understand. My disdain was more an expression of my frustration as I was turned away again and again. Between the dead and the fearful, there were few places for me to turn. One such place was a small village in a mountain valley. A quaint, green place that spent a large portion of its day under the cool shadows of its rocky surroundings. It was not easy to reach with a wagon, so I did not often travel there, but I was always welcomed with open arms and warm meals as the locals eagerly explored my goods, so rarely seen in their remote home. I hoped such a visit could restore my flagging morale, or that I perhaps could at least find work amongst them as my trading days appeared to be numbered. The meal was warm when I arrived, but the arms less open than folded in worry. After I ate and attended to my things, I was taken aside by the village elder. They had not heard from their sister village in two weeks and wanted to know if I had any news. I did not, having come from a different direction. He wasn't surprised by my answer, as the other village lay across the mountains by a path no wagon could take. In fact, the two normally communicated by bird as the path was not easy even by foot. They were simple, short messages, mere updates about recent events since the two shared much blood through marriage. But now, they had stopped. Birds were sent with no response. Considering the state of the country right now, it was an ominous sign. The old man confessed that his people were worried about friends and family, but none were brave enough to make a journey and see for themselves. They were weak-hearted folk. I understood his implied request and agreed to travel to the village. He sighed in relief and promised to reward me when I returned, whatever the news. I asked that we decide what the reward would be after the job was finished and he accepted. I still wasn't sure if I should continue as a trader, and thought perhaps I could negotiate a better working position if I decided to settle down instead. Leaving my wagon and goods in the hands of the elder was not something I was in the habit of doing. These were not dishonest folk like city dwellers, though, and I could tell they were more concerned with finding answers than theft. After a night to rest, I entered the mountain pass with little more than my pack and a dagger, safe in the knowledge my possessions would be there for me when I returned. It was not a treacherous path, just a rocky and uneven one. Maybe someday the village men would find the time to clean it up, shattering stones and flattening dirt. As it was then, it took a day to cross what should only take half. I camped on the grassy hills just out of the pass, the sister village dimly visible in the waning light. I could have finished the trek if I was not so exhausted, but considering the nature of my visit, that may have been for the best. The next morning, I felt refreshed, if a bit sore. It wasn't bad, but it was enough to make me hope a little more that I would find the village safe and sound. I was not looking forward to my return trip through the pass, not without at least one night in a proper bed. So it was disappointment which first crossed my mind when the stench struck me. I had been suspicious about the lack of activity visible from a distance, but had held out hope that it was simply a town of late-risers. The smell of rot dashed that away as I approached. I paused and set down my pack, solemnly retrieving a cloth and herbs to wrap around my nose and mouth. The doctors say it blocks the plague’s miasma and prevents infection, but I have seen their corpses in piles, too. In any case, the fragrance does help with the stench of rotting flesh, so I donned my simple mask. To be honest, I was somewhat used to it, the foul mix of shit, bile, and decay that exudes from the deceased. It is like the sight of the bodies themselves, where each time you encounter it, it affects you a little less. Only “somewhat,” though, and when I entered the village I was thankful my mask filtered it down to an acceptable level. Unfortunately, it didn't help with what I couldn’t get used to: The sounds. It’s the silence you hear first. I don't know if it's because you instinctively know a village should carry the sound of men and women talking, laughing, working, but the lack of any of it is almost deafening. Even nature seems to quiet and you hear no bubble of creeks, no gusts of wind, like the pall of death has driven Mother Earth herself into a respectful quiet. The animals, though, you hear them next. They are what truly maddened me when I walked between the huts. Rats squeaking, dogs moaning, flies buzzing. Filthy sounds that needle their way through your ears and into your brain where they worm around with their inconsistent pitches and tones. Sights remain the same, smells waft and wane slowly, but sounds, they change with a horrible frequency that the mind can never accept. You might be wondering why I subjected myself to this, why I entered a place and risked contracting the plague. I don't remember the answer to that question the first or second times I did so, but by the time of this trip, I had become convinced of my own immunity to the disease. By what means, I know not, but I had no fear of dying. As for why I endured the horrid smells and sounds, well, sometimes there are a few survivors holding out, or messages left as to where they went. The other village would appreciate whatever good news I could find in this hellhole. I had no luck, though. Every house was empty, or filled with the dead. They had all passed some time ago, from what I could tell. It was probably not long after the last bird had been sent that the Shrouded Reaper swung his scythe through this land. Normally, the plague takes some time to wipe out a population, but they seemed to have all died within a very short period. I had heard tales of it, whole towns or even cities taken in only a day, and in this place I knew they were not the baseless rumors I had dismissed them as. But then, I heard movement. Not the terrible, aimless travel of flies and sickly beasts, but the methodical plod of feet on dirt, heavy with the weight of a man. There was indeed someone still alive here and just around the corner from the sound of it. I headed towards the source and heard him stop, followed by a grunt of exertion. As I turned the corner, I saw him dump a corpse into a small wheelbarrow, the limbs and head haphazardly hanging over the edges. He clapped his hands as though he were dusting them, but it only served to spread the pus that had come from a burst boil on the body. He was a short, raggedy man with a short, raggedy beard. Dirty, tattered clothes hung from his limbs and a cloth wrapped around his hair. He looked sickly, but not with plague. More like he had not been eating well, his skin pallid and loose instead of dark and tough. A large butcher knife, splotched with rust, was at his side, a bit of leather strapped along its edge for safety. “Hello!” I called to him. He turned to me and I saw an open sore on his cheekbone, another on his collarbone just barely covered by his shirt. “Oh. H-hello!” he said in a raspy voice, looking surprised. “I don't know you?” “I'm a trader, here on behalf of your sister village. They were worried because they haven't heard from you.” “Ha! As well they should be,” he laughed, revealing a mouth missing several of his front teeth. “They aren't sisters of mine, though. This isn't my village.” “Then why are you here? Aren't you afraid of the plague?” “Someone must clean up the dead, eh? And I don't fear the plague. I'm immune and I'll bet you are, too. Those masks don't work, you know, and this was a nasty bit of ole man Death’s doing around here. I don't think you would be standing if you caught it.” I nodded. It was intriguing, to find someone else who was immune. I had suspected I wasn't the only one, but this was confirmation. “I am, and the mask is for the smell, not the plague,” I said. He raised an eyebrow and asked, “The smell?” I nodded towards the body in the wheelbarrow and he glanced at it. “Ah, I see. I don't smell them anymore. Haven't in a while, now that I think about it,” he said, scratching his beard. He was oddly casual about the fact that we were surrounded by death, but then, so was I. He was just a bit more experienced than me, I realized. Looking back at my talk with the village elder, I now wondered if that was how I appeared to him when I agreed to investigate this place. It hadn't been a hard decision, and I'd made it even before he offered the reward. I decided it was not my place to judge him, lest I be a hypocrite. “Well, how long have you been here? Have you seen any survivors? Or any signs of where they might have gone?” I asked, such thoughts reminding me of my duty here. “Aye, sir, I have,” he said with a smile. “A man. More a boy, really. He’s hiding near where I've set up. I’m glad you mentioned it since he's not been doing well recently. Maybe you can help him better than I?” He gestured for me to follow, then turned and took the handles of the barrow. His strength surprised me. Despite his sickly appearance, he seemed to have no trouble lifting it and pushing forward over the uneven ground. I had to admit I was impressed. He glanced over his shoulder and caught my eye. “What? Thought I was weak?” he asked, reading me instantly. I bobbed my head back side-to-side in answer. “Heh heh,” he chuckled quietly, looking ahead again. “I don't blame you for misjudging me. It's not the healthiest of jobs, even if you're immune. But, someone must clean up the dead, eh?” “True enough,” I agreed. “I'll apologize for my mistake, though.” A thought sprung to my mind as I said it, so I continued, “And we haven't introduced ourselves. I am-” “A trader,” he interrupted. “That's what you said, right? So you're “Trader”. This isn't the healthiest of jobs, and I'll have little use for your name once our business is done.” A smile came to my face. There was something to respect about his honesty. Maybe it was the wry humor to it all, so much more pleasing a sound than those disturbing utterances of the animals of the village. I found myself uttering a laugh as I thought on it. He grunted quizzically, so I told him, “Sorry. It’s just, your voice is such a relief. I can't stand the sounds of things back there. They're so mindless, it almost drives me insane.” “Eh? You aren't used to the sounds yet? The flies? The rats? The-” “Yes!” I said quickly, not wanting to hear them again in my mind’s ear. “Ah. The sounds were the easiest for me to get used to. It was the sight of things I found hard to handle.” “I found that the easiest myself, Gravedigger,” I said. He stopped and turned to look at me, cocking his head. He grinned, revealing those missing teeth. It was a strange camaraderie we had found, but we both understood the fact that this was not the first dead village either of us had been to. I was no longer merely intrigued by this man for his similar immunity to the plague, but also the comfort I was now feeling in his company. He had seen the same horrors I had. More, in fact. There was a sense of release I had never known I could feel amongst the weak-hearted. Gravedigger regarded me, taking his time to think. I saw a twinkle of joy in his eye that I knew was the same as my comfort. He dropped his head and shook it in disbelief before looking back at me. “If you're Trader, then I'm not Gravedigger. Call me Corpse-Eater.” My face fell and he laughed long and hard. When he finished, he turned back to his barrow with tears of mirth and continued on his way. Recovering, I stumbled to catch up to him. “You, you don't mean…” I said, my voice wavering. “I mean that you are Trader, and I am Corpse-Eater,” he confirmed. “You mean to say that you’re…” “The sounds were easy. The smells were harder. The sights even more. The taste, though. That's the hardest. It'll be true for you, too.” “What are you suggesting?!” I demanded. Corpse-Eater looked over his shoulder at me. I could tell he was disappointed since he didn't give me the honor of stopping and explaining like before. “I suppose this makes us even. We've both misjudged each other.” “You mean to say that this body you're moving… You're going to eat it? Not bury it?” “Yes,” he sighed. “Or, I might. I thought you were like me, but I guess I was wrong. It's probably the best for that boy, at least.” It was a confusing feeling as we walked in silence. This man understood the painful truth of our dark world the same way I did, but those like the elder did not. Yet he was Corpse-Eater. A cannibal in a filth-ridden land. I held onto my revulsion since I suspected that may be the difference between me and Corpse-Eater that this boy needed. We reached a crossroads, and Corpse-Eater nodded at the path into the hills. “Find the cave. Perhaps he will eat what you bring him. I have tried many things,” his eyes met mine with a glare, “many things I do not eat. Things without rot, without plague. But he doesn't eat them, however I try. You brought food with you, right? Try that, he must be starving by now.” The sickly man frowned and looked aside. It was obvious he wanted to say something, but hesitated. He closed his eyes and sighed. “If he is dead, bury him. If he lives, send him to his sister village. Either way, walk down this path when you are done.” Corpse-Eater then walked down his path with his barrow, and I walked down mine with my pack and the rations it held. I found a thin body in the cave. He’d died only half-starved, thirst his true killer. Near the entrance were packs of food and skins of water. All were clean. None were touched. I found soft dirt outside and buried him. The trek down to the fork was quiet, like when I first approached the village. The sound of flies as I walked up the other path did not bother me. It was odd, so odd, how a sky black with buzzing creatures and thick with sounds that once needled my ears and wormed my brain somehow felt clear, so clear. “He was dead, wasn't he?” Corpse-Eater asked sullenly, his butcher knife unsheathed, the brownish-red of drying blood and rust indistinguishable from one-another. “Yes,” I said, watching as he pulled a bloated arm onto the chopping block before him. “He was immune… like us,” he said, hacking wetly during his pause. He wiggled the blade out of the soft, rotted flesh. “He couldn't get used to it like us.” He hacked again. “He couldn't accept that someone must clean up the dead.” I watched as he wrenched out the piece of putrid meat. He tilted it back and forth, examining it closely. “It's the taste that's hardest,” he murmured to himself before turning to me. “I wanted to ease him into it. You saw the food, the water. But he chose death. I don't blame him. Not after what he saw.” His eyes locked on mine, Corpse-Eater bit into the hunk of arm he held. He did not blink as the cutting teeth he still had tore off piece after piece, his intact molars gnashing the meat into a filthy slurry of blood, skin, hair, rot, and pus. There was no misery in those eyes as viscous fluid dribbled down his chin with every bite, every chew, only a burning sense of duty. I stayed long enough to watch him finish the piece he had cut. When I reached the fork, I looked up in the direction of the cave where I had buried the boy. I looked back towards the Corpse-Eaters’ house. I looked forward to the village I had been sent to investigate and I removed the mask of herbs. I knew the smell would be nothing to me. The sounds, I was unsure of, but I would get used to them in time. It was the taste, I now knew, that was hardest. The trek through the mountain pass, so difficult before, felt like nothing. I would still be a trader when I returned to the elder and took my reward in gold. There was no settling down here after meeting the Corpse-Eater. There is no normal life after you understand what you can be when you are immune to the infectious darkness plaguing the country. For when being a trader becomes too hard, when I must finally find a new profession, I will know that someone must clean up the dead. Category:Dismemberment Category:Reality